


Tengo Mi Garganta, Tengo Mis Manos

by teenuviel1227



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Jaehyungparkian, M/M, fluffy and awkward, just some fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 15:23:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13192941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: Jae takes up Salsa dancing after losing a bet, and Brian, salsa dance instructor, shows him exactly what fuego means.





	Tengo Mi Garganta, Tengo Mis Manos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softlyblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyblue/gifts).



> Title is from “Que Tienes Tu” by Dvicio
> 
> The only Spanish I know is from watching Thalia as a kid, reading up on my Spanish-Philippine colonial history for school a billion years ago, and listening to Latin pop-rock music, so.
> 
> This is for the Content Creator exchange I did with some awesome people. Sweetlysofts, I hope you like this. :D I know you asked for soft, but I had no idea what kind of soft, so I went with kind of silly.
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Blog](http://teenuviel1227.wordpress.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)

They’re all drunk when Jae loses the bet. Wonpil had just gotten promoted, had bought them all a round of Tequila at the local bar, after which they’d decided to sneak into the housing complex sports building, picking up a six-pack of beer on the way. Sungjin was mouthing off about how they should really start talking about football, now they were assigned in Argentina. Dowoon laughed, saying they should’ve started talking about football even back home--South Korea is football country too. Blame the American, Wonpil had joked. 

And Jae, already inebriated, had called it:  _ ya’ll are just bitter you can’t beat me at ball.   
_

It was like digging his own grave, hammering in the nail on his own coffin:  _ eyes shut at the three-point line, that thing’ll go in. Swear it on all the clothes I own. _

Jae was counting on the sports building being closed for the night--it wasn’t. Apparently, there weren’t a lot of security threats in a complex for a petrol company’s engineers, at least not at a basketball court. 

Wonpil had burst out laughing when the door swung open under Sungjin’s touch. 

Look, he said, nodding to the far end of the bleachers. Someone even left you a ball. 

Dowoon wanted to up the ante--if they were doing something stupid, they might as well go all in. Jae had rolled his eyes, eager to get things over with. Sungjin started the list: Things Park Jaehyung Is Terrible At. Not ranting about his facial wash, Wonpil had supplied. Not waking the world up when he has a nightmare, Sungjin remarked. Dowoon laughed, picking up the ball, turned to the ring, closing his eyes and throwing the ball. No, he’s really bad at dancing. Dowoon’s shot goes in. He opens his eyes, grinning. If Jae loses, he has to take up Salsa dancing. I know a guy who teaches--my mom’s neighbor’s hairdresser’s sister’s kid--he’ll do it for friendship price. 

Jae conceded, the alcohol running through his nerves, his balance wobbly. 

He shut his eyes, pretending for a moment to be one of those psychics from the nineties TV shows he used to love as a kid: Charmed, Sabrina, Alex Mack. He aims, takes a shot in the dark. The ball bounces off the baseboard, his humiliation reverberating through the entire court. 

_ Ah, fuck it.  _

  
  


Today, he is standing in the middle of the dance studio, wearing baggy sweatpants and an old shirt, his cap turned backwards on his head. He feels stupid, Googles  _ Salsa Outfit _ . The images are of a man wearing flared salsa pants and a tight-fitting button-down, leather dance shoes. He glances down at his Jordans.  _ I paid full price for these. Look on the bright side: it probably doesn’t get any more embarrassing than this.  _

And then the instructor walks into the room and Jae feels like the Road Runner after an anvil’s been dropped over his head and he’s been flattened by a moving car speeding down a desert road. He makes a mental note to kill Dowoon a) for not introducing him earlier, preferably when he is rocking his floppy-haired Engineer-in-a-suit look and b) for not telling him to dress up properly for his Salsa lessons. (Dowoon  _ had _ actually told him to dress up properly for the Salsa lessons.)

The instructor is drop-dead gorgeous. Dark hair, honeyed skin, bright eyes, a smile that could melt the entire petrol complex into one molten, goopy ball of cement and volatile reagents, a marble catastrophe. He’s around five-foot-nine with a body like a battle axe: Jae hadn’t known that salsa pants could look good on anyone up until then--the cut clinging to the taper of his waist, the dark fabric hugging the curve of his hips, falling flared just-so to accentuate his sturdy posture. His polo is white, the first two buttons undone. 

Jae wonders if this is how he dies.  _ Death via Sexy Salsa Instructor. Not a bad way to go.  _ He’s also never wanted so much to be alive, at least to ask for a number, a date, dinner preferably.

“Dowoonie’s friend?” the beautiful man asks in Spanish. His voice is creamy, holding the  _ ah _ , speeding over the  _ mi _ , grazing over the  _ go _ .  _ Amigo.  _ Jae knows what he’s asking but is unable to process anything. The instructor’s smile is warm, sincere. His cheeks dimple. 

Jae wants to hide somewhere far, far away from here. He tries not to think about the fact that he hasn’t showered today, had just pretty much rolled out of bed and put on his cap before stuffing his feet into his shoes.

The instructor clears his throat.

Jae blinks. Once, twice, thrice. 

“Oh, sorry--are you more comfortable conversing in Korean?” He asks, his voice running smooth into his Seoul accent like thread slips slick into the eye of a needle. He runs a hand through his hair.

Jae’s eye twitches. The instructor’s hair moves like a dream--less like hair, more like ink in water as it slides across his face, catches the sunlight pouring in through the far window. 

“Yo, are you Park Jaehyung or not?” He asks in English. It jars Jae back into the present moment. Yes, he thinks. It's Dowoonie’s friend, the mute. “Cause dude, if you aren’t, I only have around an hour to teach my aunt’s neighbor’s friend’s kid’s friend.”

“Yes, yes I am,” Jae manages to answer haltingly in three languages:  _ 네, si, I am.  _ He kicks himself inwardly. “Hi. I’m Jae. Yeah sorry about the--thingy--”

The instructor grins. 

“--yeah, Dowoonie told me about the bet. He said you’d be the lost-looking one but to be fair most people who sign up for Salsa look lost on the first day. Anyway. I’m Brian. Younghyun if you prefer, but pretty much only my mom calls me that. Ready to dance?” 

Jae lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. Yeah, about that--I can’t dance to save my life, so I’m sorry in advance.”

Brian grins, lets his gaze linger on Jae's lean frame a moment longer. 

Jae's cheeks burn.

Brian hits _play_ on his iPod and music fills the room. 

“Challenge accepted.” 

  
  


Turns out, Jae isn’t really sorry--how can he be when forty minutes later, he’s pressed up against Brian with a hand on his chest, right over his heart? How can he be any form of regretful when Brian has a hand on his nape, is putting Jae’s free hand on his thigh, pressing his long fingers against the crook of his knee and telling him to  _ hold _ as he presses them even closer together? He’s sweating--half from the exertion, half from trying not be a creep. Or trying not to let Brian figure out he's trying not to be a creep--and failing miserably. Brian smells like mint shampoo and lemon soap. Brian’s hands are broad, a little rough.

“See?” Brian says, grinning as he leans into Jae’s grasp, fingers grazing the soft hair on Jae’s nape. Jae can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. “Easy peasy. You just have to let your partner  _ move _ . Taking the lead doesn’t always mean being the one doing the complicated footwork.” 

Jae laughs nervously as Brian sets him upright, withdrawing his warmth, standing apart from him again. “I don’t think that counts as leading.” 

The alarm signaling the end of the lesson rings. Brian hits _stop._  


Brian grins. “Yeah? Well, if you asked for my number instead of staring at me like an idiot, that’d count for sure.” 

  
  


Of course, Brian suggests they go to a Salsa bar after dinner. It’s packed. The music is lively, the lights bright--everywhere, bodies are moving: a little crazy, a little too close, but beautiful, unbridled in a cautious, calculated way. The girls’ skirts--beaded and shiny, flowery and flaring out, hip-hugging and dark, the slits going on for days--move like a dream, the men’s shoes tap out a cadence on the tiled floor. 

Dinner was fun: they’d talked about home, about being so-called citizens of the world, about what brought them to Buenos Aires. Jae had said something about being born there. Brian had said something in Spanish and he’d blanked out again. They laughed. Jae talked about California, about burgers, about burritos, about chipotle. Brian talked about loving food in general, about how his hidden talent was he could eat a lot of food and then sleep right after without anything bad happening to him. Jae said it was a good thing he danced, then. Brian said something about falling asleep on a dance floor once. They drank too much Sangria--which, really, is just enough Sangria for a first date when you’re with a hot dancer and you’ve got two left feet, in Jae's opinion. 

“Come on,” Brian says, taking Jae’s hand. The warmth sends a jolt of electricity down his spine. 

Jae lets himself be pulled toward the dance floor, still unsure what to do. Brian throws his arms around Jae’s shoulders, moving his hips in a way that Jae thinks should be made illegal for the safety of the public. Jae tries to move to the beat. Brian pulls him closer, moving his hands down the length of Jae’s torso and onto his hips. 

“Don’t think about it too much,” Brian yells over the music. “Just let yourself move to the beat. That’s what your hips are for.” 

He puts a hand on Jae’s hips, grinds slow, painstakingly against him. Reluctantly, slowly, Jae lets his hands graze Brian’s cheek, his shoulder, his chest as they move, together, swaying to the music, the groovy melody, the playful percussions. Brian puts his hand flush against Jae’s back. Jae pulls him closer. Brian lurches forward, gracefully spirals back--dances around him, turning like flame around a wick. Jae’s heart is pounding as he finds himself moving too, everything intuitive, the music, the lights, the night, the moment, Brian telling him what to do. 

The music stops. Everyone claps. Jae is caught off guard. Brian barrels into him. Jae catches him by the elbow. Their eyes meet as he steadies Brian. Jae smiles. In that moment, he makes a simple choice, one he doesn’t need anyone to tell him the steps to. 

He tilts Brian’s chin up toward him, gently tugs him closer, eyes fluttering shut as he presses their lips together in a soft kiss. Brian’s lips are soft, warm. He tastes faintly of fruits, of wine. Brian sighs into the kiss, bringing his arms around Jae’s waist, tenderly sucking on his lower lip, asking for entrance. Jae’s lips part and Brian licks into his mouth--desire lights up in both of them like music starting up in a quiet room. 

When they pull apart, neither of them can stop smiling. 

“I’ve never been happier to lose a bet,” Jae says, biting back a grin. “That was freaking--lit.”

Brian nods his assent. “Fuego. Most definitely.”

Jae raises an eyebrow. “You wanna get out of here?”


End file.
